


kick in the head

by Mizzy



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Consensual Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hurt No Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Mild D/s, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Quiver | Quentin/Oliver]<br/>Quentin's never had a history of good life decisions. <br/>He's obviously not going to improve in that area. <br/>Especially if he keeps having violent and messy sex with Oliver Queen.</p>
<p>If only he could blame it <i>all</i> on Dean Martin...</p>
            </blockquote>





	kick in the head

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Dubious consent. Violent. *points to tags* 
> 
> Thank you: to Telaryn for the beta, WhiskyinMind and ImmoralCrow for the cheerleading, and Wtchcool for letting me use the ship name. Quiver. IN A SHOW CALLED ARROW. I am going to be amused about that FOREVER.

Quentin Lance knows that he hasn't been making the best decisions over the last five years, but this one would certainly top the list of _bad decisions of the century--_ if he was anywhere near certain that there _had_ been a decision involved in any part of what was happening.

It's not like he was _planning_ any of this. 

How could _anyone_ plan something like--

Like--

He needs a drink. He needs a thousand drinks. But if self-destruction is what he's aiming for, he's already gone way too far down that path to need an extra push.

Quentin doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself for this mess.

And maybe Dean Martin.

No, wait. _Definitely_ Dean Martin.

#

It's the smirk, Quentin thinks. It's definitely Oliver Queen's smirk that does something to him. Churns him up and twists him inside out. It makes the rage boil inside of him, like he can actually _feel_ the temperature of his anger rising higher and higher with each flash of Oliver Queen's infuriating, asshole _smirk._

Quentin actually thought he had him this time. Thought that for once in the wretched villainous streets of the once-great Starling City that hard, routine police work had finally worked the way it was supposed to. Oliver Queen had been cornered in the building just opposite from where Carl Draper had been visited by the vigilante – the building several eye witnesses had seen the vigilante escape into. The _empty_ building, empty except for Oliver Queen standing and smirking at Quentin Lance. Rocking on his heels and wearing an expression of smugness, clothing himself in the kind of fake innocence Quentin sees on felons every goddamned day.

"I suppose this means I'm free to go," Queen says, still looking far too pleased with the situation as Quentin's colleagues head out of the room, already moving to their next destination.

Still smarting from the order to sheathe his gun, Quentin just glares at him. "You're up to something, Mr. Queen."

"Oliver, please," Queen says, that smirk sticking to Queen's face like a scar. "My father was Mr. Queen, and he's sadly no longer with us."

Queen's voice is implacable. Level.

"That's not a denial," Quentin says.

"I know," Queen says, and tilts his head, italicizing his smirk and ramping up the sizzling anger in Quentin's belly to the boiling point. "Irritating as hell, right?"

Quentin's an adult. He's a grown man with decades of experience under his belt. He can hold his goddamned temper. It churns around his body, like his veins are a rollercoaster and the anger's taking a high-speed ride. His hands clench into fists, and that just seems to amuse Queen even more.

The very last thing Quentin is going to do is let Queen know how annoyed he is. How _close_ they were to pinning the vigilante's crime on the person it just _has_ to be. Criminals are cocky, overly confident, and Oliver Queen _bleeds_ that from every spoiled, pampered pore.

"It's odd for you to be scoping out new locations to expand your nightclub when your first attempt is still steel bones," Quentin says, biting out Queen's supposed excuse for being in this unusual section of the city.

"I'm a visionary," Queen says, pacing forwards a little. Quentin holds in the flinch he wants to make at this cocky little shit being free to walk around his city. Queen's the best candidate for the hooded vigilante that Quentin has, and something deep inside him is so, so sure. "I want to make my... own mark on the city."

It's a direct attack, purely for Quentin's benefit. An _I'm the vigilante and you_ know _I'm the vigilante, but there's not a damn thing you can do to prove it_ snark. The anger and despair in Quentin's gut is almost visceral, because it's easy for an enraged second to see how the vigilante justified things to himself. It would be so easy for Quentin to take the law into his own hands, to pull out his gun and put a bullet in Queen's chest. Better still, to lure him to another part of the city - somewhere where the locals would do the job for him. Best of all would be the chance to wrap his hands around Queen's neck and squeeze until that insufferable smirk fades forever.

"You mean your own stain on the city," Quentin says, thinking of all the other rich idiots in Starling City who use the city as a playground for their idle amusement. The vigilante's just another part of all that. A pawn in a game that's pointless and railroads over innocent civilians, and they don't care. There isn't an individual in Starling City's rotten layer of bourgeoisie that cares about the damage they're all doing to the city. Quentin works himself to the bone day by day to bring justice, and it's only making the tiniest dent, and Oliver Queen represents all of that soul deep frustration. Quentin wants to destroy them all – he needs to destroy _something_ \- and Oliver Queen is something he can get his hands on.

That's the only justification he can come up with later for why he snaps out the one thing he knows will trigger Oliver Queen. That will loose an arrow directly to the heart of Queen's most well-known issue.

When he speaks it’s slow and measured so he can pretend he's the one still in control, not his pent-up rage and frustration. "Granted, you probably won't make a stain as big as the mess your father left behind him."

Queen’s reaction is perfect, the smirk shifting into open-mouthed outrage, and his control is inches below Quentin's. He's less able than Quentin to hold back the physical symptoms of rage, and he's across the small space of floor before Quentin can even stretch his face into a smirk of his own, his hands fisting into the lapels of Quentin's jacket.

"Now, now." Quentin _does_ finally let his own smirk loose and he enjoys it, because it's the only second of satisfaction he's going to get today. "Touching an officer of the city is a crime, _Oliver_."

The anger on Queen's face lingers for a moment, and it's the kind of moment Quentin's been craving all day – even more on seeing that hooded figure disappearing into this very building – but it doesn't last nearly long enough. Queen doesn't loosen his grip, but his face relaxes. "Mm, I think you've already wrecked any possibility you had of arresting me tonight, Detective. It’s an unfortunate downside of insistently protesting that I'm a dangerous vigilante, when I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You're so full of _shit."_

"Yeah?" Queen pushes right into his personal space, head tilting up, his expression still placid, and Quentin thinks that might even be more annoying than the smirk. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Shut you up for a start," Quentin says, and it comes out sibilant, a hissing growl in the tiny space left between them.

"You want me to be quiet?" Queen smirks again and no, _that_ is his the most annoying expression by far. " _Make_ me."

Quentin wants to take the smirk away, and he wants to silence Queen, and he wants to destroy _everything,_. Queen's hands are still fisted in his jacket, holding them together, and Quentin can't blame any rational thought process on what happens next. 

Because if he was thinking, or thinking with his _brain_ , there's no way in hell he would do what he does next.

Like it or not, Dean Martin’s been buzzing through Quentin’s head all day, the worst kind of earworm, and head violence – _ain’t that a kick in the head_ – is obviously on his mind. Too much on his mind, because he balls up his fist and punches Queen solidly in the face.

Queen rocks back, instinctively protecting his face with his hands. A moment later Quentin has proof that Oliver Queen is several miles off the reservation. His hands lower, and when he raises his face Queen is laughing through the blood running from his nose, pooling between his teeth.

"Detective Lance," Queen says, lingering over the syllables, looking infinitely amused. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Quentin's fist is still balled tight. He digs his fingernails into the soft flesh of the base of his palm, and the sting is not enough to cover up the white noise of rage in his head. He can't speak. The fury clenches his jaws together, fuses his teeth into an impenetrable wall. There are things he can say which are worse than a punch to the face, and Quentin's got to hold onto _some_ of his limits, else Queen will win. Queen will take _everything_ from him, one piece at a time.

"I could press charges for this," Queen says, an indecipherable tone to his voice. "But I think you've probably got better things to do with your time than fill out that much paperwork." 

Queen's words stop making sense; Quentin's too busy sinking in self-loathing at the level he's already fallen to - losing control and punching Queen – and he misses seeing Queen tense up. 

Quentin's head snaps backwards. Queen's shorter than he is, but he packs power into his punches. Most of the sharp pain is shock, but that doesn't last long -- he's a Starling City cop and that's always entailed a need to be able to protect yourself in a fight. He barrels forward instead, all speed and anger; catching Queen around the middle and tackling him bodily to the ground.

Queen is unprepared, was obviously expecting another hit to the face, so they go down into the dirt harder than Quentin was expecting. Without the expected resistance Quentin, Queen's head smacks hard against the floor, and they’re both winded from the shock. His own breath flames through his chest, and he can hear the wheeze of the short, sharp desperate exhale forcing itself past his clenched teeth. It sounds like broken glass and shattered bones, but they're both still too intact for that. Quentin tries to push himself back up, but Queen's too fast for that. He grabs inelegantly onto the back of Quentin's neck, catching a handful of hair at the same time and pulling sharply. He then pairs that with a knee between Quentin's legs, levering them up and rolling them over in a brutal, graceless moment. Queen elbows Quentin hard in the gut as he lands on top of him and Quentin reacts by boxing Queen in the side of the head hard, managing to roll them back over. His elbow lands on Queen's neck and he pushes down, enjoying the way Queen's eyes bulge, and an obvious nerve pulses in his forehead as he struggles for breath. 

Too late Quentin remembers to try and restrain Queen's legs, but Queen's suddenly and _obviously_ not a newbie to this whole grappling-in-the-dirt kind of fight, because his legs lock around Quentin's hips and the world goes suddenly sideways. Queen manages to throw Quentin _backwards._ Queen, clamped onto him like a limpet, rides the momentum of the throw and slams down on him, knees pressed on either side of Quentin's waist. He digs an elbow down hard into Quentin's chest and the air goes thin and gritty as Quentin struggles to breathe. Queen balls his own fist and smacks Quentin across the face, once, twice-- Stars flood across Quentin's vision, and he tenses his muscles, readying his next onslaught as he stares up in loathing at Queen's bloodied face. Queen looks down at him, the same deadly light in his eyes that Quentin's seen on the face of a thousand different killers. Quentin readies himself for the next blow --

\-- and sees stars of a different kind when Queen reaches a hand inside his pants. Calloused fingers close roughly around an erection Quentin hadn't even noticed in the haze of his rage and lights explode behind Quentin's eyeballs. The sharp mixture of pain and pleasure is something his body can't even process, because it's too much, it's _too much._

Quentin's head smacks back against the floor, shock this time rather than another blow, and he feels a corresponding hardness as Queen flexes his narrow hips experimentally – rutting against Quentin's thigh – but Quentin can't motivate himself to do anything until Queen's dangerous, blood and dust covered face darts in towards him and Queen's perfect white teeth nip, unforgiving, at Quentin's neck - drawing blood.

"You fucking _vampire,_ " Quentin growls. He shoves hard, spilling Queen sideways, and without thinking automatically reverses their positions, his knees straddling Queen, his erection still entwined in Queen's fingers. Queen slides his hand without finesse, fisting Quentin's hard-on, and Quentin's eyes roll back in his head. "Little bastard--" he bites out, because this is fucked up, this is beyond fucked up. Queen rolls them back over; yanking Quentin's pants down to expose him more fully. Quentin's bared butt bites into the dust of this godforsaken warehouse and Queen lowers his face to Quentin's neck again, panting thick and heavily against the exposed skin, as he relentlessly works Quentin's cock with his hand. Queen's hips snap into Quentin's thigh, mindlessly rutting against him again, and Quentin still wants to destroy, wants to _obliterate,_. His hand snags into Queen's hair and he _pulls_. 

Queen makes a noise which can only be described as pleasure, and the hand that isn't concurrently pleasuring and paining Quentin, heavy between his legs, reaches up and grasps at him. His shirt has been a casualty in the fight somewhere along the line, and Queen's fingernails claw at his chest. The friction's delightful but it's not enough, it's nowhere near enough. Quentin looks down, catching a glimpse of his reddened, angry erection sliding in Queen's surprisingly-rough hand (and no one that rich should have the hands of a workman, should have hands that feel _this good_ ) and Queen's blood-rushed face, and he's not strong enough to stop this. He should stop. He _should_ stop. But should and logic and want are all thrown out of the window by the _need_ of this crackling through his bones, uncertain but obliterating everything else in its fiery path. 

Destroy Oliver Queen from the inside out. Blister through him so in the light of the next day when Queen remembers what he _willingly_ did, the shame will eat him alive. Quentin's already wrecked his life enough that one more scar is just one more scar. But if he can take Queen down with him, then maybe that's the best he has any right to hope for. 

The _this should stop_ impulse takes Quentin a certain distance. He pushes Queen away, and somehow staggers to his feet, shirt hanging out; blood running down his chest from his face and neck and new reddened lines made by Queen's fingernails. Queen gets up onto one knee, and that's as far as _this should stop_ takes him. Queen looks up at him, blood running between his teeth, a chunk of hair missing from the side of his head which might now still be caught in Quentin's fingers, and suddenly _this should stop_ is gone.

"You want to be a slut for me, huh?" Quentin hurtles forwards into the small space he managed to reclaim, and yanks Oliver forward by the hair. When they fought earlier, their punches were equal -- Queen could get away if he really wanted to. Quentin realizes he's oddly bolstered by this, by Queen bringing _himself_ to his own destruction. He grabs at Queen's hair and hauls him forwards, pushes Queen's face into his crotch. Blood's pounding in his ears and he suddenly doesn't know what he wants Queen to do – bite him or suck him off. Either is what he needs. Blinding pain or blinding pleasure, either will bring the oblivion Quentin's been craving, been _needing_ , so much for the last five years, and it's just desserts or something equally perfect that Queen's the one who's going to give it to him. Queen owes him so much that this is only _fair._

Quentin's thoughts and actions are probably going to disgust him too come morning light, but right now he's burning too close to a moment which might bring the first second of peace that he's felt in _years,_ and when he's already damned, what are another few steps?

Queen doesn't hesitate, doesn't give Quentin time to wonder whether pain or pleasure is coming. His mouth closes around Quentin's throbbing erection, and he sucks so hard that it _is_ painful for a moment. Quentin's fingers knot in Queen's short hair and he pushes Queen down onto his dick, forcing him to take him deeper, and Queen _takes_ it. Inhales Quentin's dick down all the way and Quentin can hear him choking, but he keeps his fingers there, holding Queen fast until Queen settles and he can feel the suction of Queen swallowing him down. Quentin feels fingers cupping him and pinching at his balls, and it's when Queen unceremoniously pushes three of his fingers at once into Quentin's asshole that the world turns white. The sudden intrusion, rough and blunt, whitewashes everything and Quentin comes down Queen's throat, and comes, and comes, the orgasm a trembling burn that threatens to tumble him to the floor. 

When he opens his eyes again, Queen's pulled back, head lowered to the ground, his dick hanging out of his jeans, still mostly erect but covered with evidence of his own orgasm. Feeling jittery, Quentin pulls his hands back from where they're just resting now on Queen's lowered head. He tugs his pants back up rough and uncaring, tucking himself back in and ignoring the shoot of protest from his painful post-orgasm cock. He’s still hard enough to do some damage to Queen, but the insane rush of adrenaline has dissipated a little in the aftermath of what was undoubtedly one of the top-ten orgasms of Quentin's whole life so far.

And that realization is what finally shatters the moment. Quentin stares down at Queen, who tilts his face up. There's a smear of come on Queen's face, mixed in with the blood, and he’s not smirking or looking amused. He just looks thoughtful; refusing to back down from staring at Quentin. It’s an unpleasant stalemate. 

The air is cool, biting at Quentin's exposed chest, and he quickly and futilely tucks in the remains of his clothes. That's when the panic sets in. The chief, not amused with Quentin's apparently ongoing vendetta against Oliver Queen, had given him the rest of the night off -- but his department was still out there. Close. Tracking the vigilante. And Quentin had-- He had--

"Relax," Queen says, tucking himself away as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but staying on his knees in the dirt all the same. He purses his lips together for a moment, a brilliant bruise already starting to flower on his cheek. "I won't tell if you don't." He then has the audacity to _wink_ at Quentin.

It's too much, _too soon,_ and Quentin does the only thing he can think of that won't get him in even more trouble.

He flees.

He’s pretty sure he can hear Queen's laughter following him as he goes.

#

Murphy’s Law dictates that Queen come visit him at his workplace the next day, so of course he does. _Perfect,_ Quentin thinks, suddenly and furious and panicked, but he bottles that away and shoves it violently into the corner of his mind; draws in an even breath to start denying everything as Queen insists they find somewhere quiet to talk.

Quentin ignores the curious looks from his partner and ushers Queen off into the main corridor. Madness takes over then, and he ends up herding Queen through the nearest door at a junction in the station Quentin knows is a blind spot for the internal security cameras.

He documented everything when he got home, of course. He has photos of the bruising and samples of Oliver's DNA -- hair, and blood and skin from under Quentin's fingernails -- and in a fight in court, they'd come up just as badly as each other because neither of them said no. Quentin's clearest about that. It was a bad decision, but it was a _decision._ Queen could have just as easily bitten Quentin's dick off as suckled him to orgasm, and that was probably wherein half of the attraction of the moment lay.

Moment is a deliberate word choice. Quentin’s determined to see that it doesn’t happen again.

The universe is still laughing at him though, which is probably why he quickly finds himself pushed into the wall of the storage closet they’ve retreated into, a mop handle digging into his back and Oliver Queen's fingers inside his pants, sure and determined. Quentin barks out a half-denial, but lifts up his hips enough anyway for Queen to get his pants down, for Queen to thrust his own erection into the mix. Queen's hand moves around their dicks, pacing up into a heavy rhythm, his eyes hooded and impassive in the dim light of the cluttered closet as he works them inevitably to a rough and quick climax.

Quentin can’t let Queen win though, so as they come towards orgasm in brutal and unthinkable unison, he leans in, meaning to do something else – maybe bite at Queen's lower lip and draw blood, because he tried to masturbate after their previous encounter and failed utterly because the taste of blood was missing from his mouth -- but something else happens instead. It might be a loss of footing, a complete accident, but whatever the cause they're suddenly kissing, open mouthed and panting.

After realizing how the movement's gone horribly wrong, Quentin does bite down – latching onto Queen's lip hard enough to draw blood, and letting his anger overtake him completely. He can't let Queen control this-- this _thing,_ this mutating _monster_ between them. He shoves at Queen, throwing him at the opposite wall, their feet tangling in a bucket and cleaning supplies and knocking them to the side. All of that is just window dressing. Queen's not going to be the one in the driver’s seat as they careen off into an abyss. Quentin leans in and licks away the blood pooling on Queen's lip, replacing Queen's hand on their dicks with his own. His hand is larger, and Queen makes a keening sound into Quentin's mouth, so of _course_ Quentin slows down, dragging his thumb over the head of Queen's dick. Queen's head falls back, and he closes his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Quentin can't hear.

"You don't get away that easily, Queen," Quentin barks, keeping his voice quiet. Anyone could be walking past. _Oh, god._ Anyone could be right out there, hearing their small gasps, hearing the unmistakable noise of flesh against flesh. 

That shouldn't be the thought that brings him over the edge, spilling into his hand, mingling with Queen's own climax. Quentin's hips push into it despite the horror flooding in soon after about what he's done. What he's done _again._ One time is an accident, but two times-- _shame on me._

“What the hell is it that you want from me?" Quentin hisses, stumbling back, pressing against the opposite wall from Queen, shrinking into himself. In the semi-darkness, Queen's eyes glitter with something indefinable. "What is this, some bored rich guy's game? What, are you fucking through the whole family, or something? My little girls were innocent ‘til they met you, but if that’s not what you’re after any more, I can give you my wife's number--"

Something flickers across Queen's face then. "I didn’t _take your daughters innocence_ ," he says. “By which I’m guessing you mean their virginity? I knew how likely I was to give anyone forever. If your girls had been the type to be ‘innocent’-” The ironic quote marks are highly audible. “I didn’t. _Either_ of them. Neither of them was a virgin before me. I'm a shit; I'm not that much of a shit."

The lie is as winding as a punch, and Quentin shoves Queen out of the closet the instant they're both presentable, escorting him roughly out of the building – not caring who sees him being so hands-on in the treatment of a civilian he's _known_ to have a vendetta against, because Oliver Queen _is_ that much of a shit. He is, he has to be, and any other interpretation is a blow to Quentin's worldview that he’s not willing to endure.

"I don't know what game you're playing," Quentin snarls. "But stay _away_ from Laurel. You hear me?"

"Sure," Queen says, and shoots him an amused glance as Quentin shoves him hard between the shoulder blades, making him stumble down the first few stone steps.

Queen catches himself and blows Quentin a kiss, before sauntering off like he owns the whole damn city.

#

It shouldn't make him curious. He _should_ be able to just let it go. Instead he lies on his bed, disgustingly sober, hating himself and hating how much he wants to go out to the nearest bar and get shitfaced; maybe find some faceless guy to fuck just to stop the idle memories of Queen's body crawling back into his mind. He hates that all he can think about is Queen's blood on his fist and Queen's face as he said, _Neither of them was a virgin before me._

_Filthy liar. Filthy lying liar._ He’s backing up, covering over the past, changing it into something that could allow him to sleep at night just like every other rich fucking stinking liar in the city.

Who's Quentin kidding anyway though – he’s a fucking stinking liar too, just without the money to accelerate his brand of suck into unbearable levels. Mostly he just lies to himself.

The lie he's telling himself most often these days is how desperately he doesn't want to know the truth. It doesn't matter if Oliver Queen deflowered his daughters. It doesn't make a fucking iota of a difference. At the end of the day, Sarah's still dead, and it doesn't matter if she was a virgin or not when it happened, she would be alive if she hadn't stepped onto that boat with Oliver Queen-- 

_But if she wasn't distracted by her hormones, if she was just any other teenager offered the chance for an exotic yacht trip, and she wasn't led by overwhelming lust, just a curious joy, just a pretty girl thinking she's dating a handsome guy, going on an adventure, and it's just like any other accident, wrong place, wrong time, and he couldn't keep his girls in cotton wool forever, a life without adventure was no life at all, and it was just a random accident, and it wasn't anyone's fault, there wasn't anyone to blame but Quentin for letting her grow up with a mind of her own and a willingness to grab every new experience with both hands and a healthy curiosity and that made it no one's fault at all. That made a world where shit happened to good people and even the law couldn't help, couldn’t make a difference--_

Breathing hard, launching upright, Quentin's fingers fumble for his phone. He pretends it's not desperate, that it's not sick, because lying to himself is his talent, his skill, and he hits _Laurel_ as his fingers clumsily find his list of contacts.

She picks up after only a couple of rings because it’s possible what he’s always suspected is true and Laurel's surgically attached to her cell phone. "Dad," Laurel says, and it's accompanied by a sigh. "Where are you?"

"At home," Quentin says, promptly. "Wait, why do you need to know where I am?" Panic starts in. "Are you okay?"

"What, am _I_ okay?" Laurel laughs. She sounds tired. "Dad, it's three in the morning. You only call this late if you're about to get thrown out of a bar, or someone's dead. So don't ask if I'm okay."

"What?" Well, it is 3am. Quentin must be more tired than he thinks he is. "No one's dead. I'm at home." He elaborates. "Sober."

"Oh," Laurel says, drawing out the sound. "Okay. Was it something urgent?"

She half inhales a yawn, and Quentin winces. 3am. She'll have been asleep. And he's woken her up, because he's stupid, and Queen's stolen the sense from his brain, and stolen all his calm. "No, I just-- I just wanted to see if I could stop by in the morning. I'll bring breakfast? I'm sorry I didn't realize the time, it's been a busy day."

"Paperwork from the vigilante attack yesterday, huh?" Laurel laughs sleepily. He's forgiven. "I'm not surprised you're half brain dead from it. Sure, breakfast would be wonderful."

"My shift starts at 8, is 7 okay?"

"Sure." Laurel doesn't muffle her next yawn. "I'll be a zombie, so no decaf, all right?"

"It's a deal," Quentin says, and can't help but smile into the phone when he says, "Good night, Laurel."

"Good _morning,_ " Laurel corrects, but doesn't sound angry as she hangs up on him.

Quentin lies back down on the bed. He should probably sleep -- to get cleaned up, dressed, find food and coffee and get to Laurel's apartment will take an hour, and it's _3am_. 

He lies back. He doesn't sleep.

#

"You look _terrible,_ " is Laurel's cheerful greeting when he appears at her door with a box of pastries from Laurel's favorite bakery and a carrier of three Starbucks coffees, just in case Laurel's new boyfriend is lurking around. 

Quentin pretends not to be pleased when it turns out Tommy Merlyn isn't anywhere around. He makes small talk and sucks down the coffee even though it's too hot, and when he starts to feel human again, he nearly talks himself out of asking Laurel _anything._

"So," Laurel says, leaning against her counter, "what is it that you want to know?"

Quentin side-eyes her, and the desire to find out the answer to his question resurfaces immediately. _Dammit._ "Excuse me?"

Her laugh is melodic. "You only ever bring me pastries for breakfast when you're trying to ferret for information, dad. But you won't get anything from me about CNRI. That's completely off limits, and--"

"No, no, it's nothing like that. It's personal," Quentin says, gesturing with his coffee to stop her thinking she would be after professional information from her, and then he freezes, because it's as good as admitting that he is after information. Laurel's smirk isn't as annoying as Oliver Queen's, but it's in the same zip code. "It's kinda awkward," Quentin finishes, tapping the plastic cup of his coffee self-consciously.

Laurel looks at him, way too knowingly. "Anything to do with that hickey on your neck?"

" _What?_ " Horrified, Quentin tries to tug at his shirt collar. It's ineffective at covering up the bite mark that Queen left on him. "No. _No._ " Laurel laughs, and he squints, pretending to be cross with her. It doesn’t last. It never lasts. He shuffles and looks away, unable to meet her gaze. "That Queen boy's been winding me up is all."

"His name's Oliver, dad." Despite the reproach in Laurel's tone, the way she lingers over his name, just _slightly_ but perceptible enough, makes Quentin flinch. He hates, _hates_ how she says his name. _Like he's a hero._ Like she doesn't know the depths to which Oliver Queen has sunk.

Like she doesn't know what Queen _does_.

"Anyway," Quentin pushes through, as Laurel nibbles at the pastry and watches him with an amused expression on her face, "he said -- You know what, it doesn't matter, he was just pushing at my buttons--"

"Dad," Laurel sighs. The amusement is still there but muted as she calls him out, "you called me at _three in the morning._ Sober. It's obviously bugging you. _Spill_."

"He said-- Oh, man." Quentin rubs at his eyes with one hand, and he manages to meet her eyes long enough to say, "He said Sarah wasn’t a—He said-" He looks away, hard. "I always thought he ruined both of you. That you were—" 

"Are you _seriously_ trying to ask me about my virginity?" Laurel laughs. It’s sharp and full of disbelief, and Quentin flails quietly feeling like the worst kind of idiot, because it doesn't matter, and the things he's done, it's all—

There must be something in his expression, because he can hear her sharp inhale. Because he's not looking at her, he can't tell whether it's disappointment or shock or disdain. "He's right," Laurel says, her voice subdued. Quentin risks looking back at her, edging the look, ready to start blustering so she doesn't have to keep speaking, because it was a ridiculous question, one Quentin shouldn't _want_ to know the answer to, one he shouldn't be compromising his daughter to find the answer to. "At least on my count. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I jumped into bed with Oliver Queen and I didn't care. I knew he was as likely to throw me to one side and never speak to me again, and hell, I jumped in anyway."

"You were only eighteen when you were with him," Quentin says, not entirely sure where the rest of his sentence is going. He's perversely pleased when Laurel interrupts.

"Like you're a role model in the area," Laurel says.

"I'm a dad, it's my job to squint and look constipated and ask awkward questions."

Laurel sighs. "Look, it's—I knew what I was getting into, so I was prepared. I—I knew he might take everything, so I held back. Made sure he didn't get everything. Oliver didn't take my virginity, dad." She pauses, and then adds, fiercely, "Not for lack of trying at one point, mind."

"Nngh," Quentin says, his brain quietly overwhelmed by the overshare.

"You're the one who brought it up," Laurel says. "I would have been quite happy taking this conversation to the grave. Anyway, it's true for me. I—it's happier for me to think it's true for Sarah too. I know precisely when she lost _her_ you-know-what—" Quentin flashes her a thankful look for not making the moment any more traumatic than it had to be "—and if she and Oliver were together then, I..." She shudders a little. This part is hard for her to say and Quentin wants to soothe her, but the guilt clamps down on him just as damn usual, and he can't even offer up a calming gesture. "Would find it very hard to forgive her."

Quentin nods; his throat full of knots. The nod is all he can manage.

"So, no, I don't believe it of Sarah," Laurel says, more firmly this time. "He wouldn't have slept with me if I hadn't wanted him to either. Oliver's more of a gentleman than you think, y'know."

Her voice lilts over _gentleman_ and Quentin feels a little queasy, because Oliver Queen is anything but a gentleman, but he can't exactly explain how he knows that. His fingers instinctively find one of the bruises Queen left him with and he nods his thanks at her. "I don't suppose you'd tell me who it was that—" he starts, because he's a father and he wants her safe and besides - he can't help himself.

" _Dad,_ " Laurel says firmly, "way too far. Besides, you're not exactly being forthcoming about romantic incidents yourself." She tilts her chin again. "Unless you'd like to tell me who it was that gave you that hickey?"

"Nngh," Quentin says again, and starts backing up to the door. "I've got to go. Enjoy breakfast."

"Coward," Laurel calls, although her voice holds nothing but amusement. "I hope I get to meet her sometime!"

_Her,_ Quentin thinks as he makes his escape. _As if anything's ever that easy._

#

Quentin manages to get Queen out of his mind about halfway through his shift. He spends his morning questioning eye witnesses from the other night -- the Chief had reassigned him from that particular vigilante incident, but that apparently getting dumped from a case doesn't apply to the boring grunt work needed to back it all up. 

He retires to the station, in order to work through his now tottering pile of paperwork. He’s halfway through the first manila folder when his cell phone buzzes.

_Text! Sender: Oliver Queen_ scrolls across his screen.

He manages to ignore the text for about two seconds. He didn't think Queen had his number; he must have lifted his phone during one of their, uh, trysts (and damn if he doesn't instantly blush thinking the word; what is he, a fainting Austen heroine?), stolen the number and programmed his own in.

Quentin hadn't felt a thing, and he absolutely was _not_ thinking about everything else those deft fingers could do. Nope.

_SAW LAUREL 2DAY._ Quentin rolls his eyes at the txtspk. To Laurel's complete consternation, Quentin insists on texting with complete sentences and correct punctuation. _SHE SAYS U'D LOST YOUR MIND OR SUMTHING._

_Please leave me alone,_ Quentin texts back. _I'm very important and busy._

Curiosity is his sin. He can't help the additional text. _Where did you see my daughter?_

_I EMPLOYED HER BF AS MANAGER. I THINK THEY'RE MAKING OUT IN MY CLUB. I'M STUCK IN MY OFFICE._

Quentin pulls a face at his cellphone, like Queen can see his half-disgusted expression. _You have an office?_

_MORE LIKE AN EVIL SECRET LAIR, OBVIOUSLY,_ Queen texts back, the sarcasm rife.

_You can turn the capslock off,_ Quentin types. And deletes, _Where have you BEEN for the last five years?_ because Queen already thinks him an idiot, there's no need to send him proof of it.

_WHAT? TEXTS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE SENT IN ALL CAPITALS. SCREAMING IS IN._

Quentin throws his phone in the drawer in absolute disgust.

At himself.

Because Queen can jerk him off in a closet, but making Quentin smile is beyond the pale and the grin was half on Quentin's face before he even realized it was there.

"Trouble in paradise, huh?" one of his colleagues says, arching a knowing eyebrow at the drawer, and then tapping on his own neck, mirroring where the bruise Queen left on him is practically glowing.

Laurel's not the only one teasing him about it.

It says a _lot_ about the police force that Quentin's had more teasing about the hickey than the black eye.

The phone buzzes again and Quentin glares at the closed drawer while his colleague chuckles at him.

He lasts about three minutes before yanking the drawer open and peering at the latest offering.

_I BET I COULD MAKE YOU SCREAM._

Quentin swallows and shuts the phone away again, sitting on his hands until the impulse to respond goes away.

#

Quentin doesn't trust his own limits. He has an addictive personality (the last five years sped up or slowed down are a testament to obsession taken to the worst level), and he really doesn't want to see if hurting Queen and getting off on it is something he could get addicted to. 

So he does his best to stay out of anything where Oliver Queen might be. He volunteers to take on colleague's paperwork, ostensibly to stay in the office and recover from the bruises he's glad he didn't have to really explain, (the desk sergeant has a note to turn Queen away from visiting Quentin, as part of the ongoing vendetta the Chief continues to warn him about) and he takes on the case of Angela Briggs-Baker's lost Pomeranian, because she lives in the middle-class area of the town, and the vigilante -- and Oliver Queen -- works the extreme sides of the city. The low and the high, the poor and the rich - if Quentin skulks in the middle, he can hopefully pass under the radar.

When that case is successful -- somehow the Pomeranian ended up being witness to the activities of a drug cartel and Quentin found enough evidence caught in the dog's collar to put the whole lot of them away -- the Chief automatically bumps him back up to the vigilante case, with a muttered reminder to leave Oliver Queen out of it, and also to quit being such a pussy and loitering around the office with a constipated expression.

Quentin might have muttered a hundred different things he could do to the Chief just with objects on his desk as he made his way to the last place the vigilante was seen.

Or he might have muttered them in regard to how he would use them to defile Queen, but that's between him and his god. (A staple gun to the shoulder blade. The letter opener, held against that pulse in his neck. Mouse cord, tying Queen's hands behind his back, leaving him helpless.)

It's probably best that Quentin's god is a bottle of cheap whiskey and a gun.

Queen doesn't even make it _difficult_ to ruin Quentin's life yet again; when he arrives at the most recent vigilante crime scene, he finds one of Queen's business cards lying in the middle of the floor.

He thinks about leaving it for one of his colleagues to follow up on.

#

"So I suppose this is your evil lair," Quentin snipes from the doorway, looking around. It's a plain room – the desk in the middle sports a brand new Macbook already looking seriously worse for wear after what could only have been _weeks._ Quentin thinks about how when he was a kid he was taught to take care of his things.

It's a good thing Oliver Queen is not one of his things.

"Yup," Queen says, spinning idly on an oversized wheeled chair. The office has all the expected accoutrements of any other office, but with the exception of the computer it all looks brand new. Quentin tries not to go cross-eyed thinking about whether it's because Queen's too busy being the vigilante to take the stationery out of its wrapping, or because Queen's just _that_ lazy.

And he's _really_ not thinking about all the things he can do with that stationery that it was never designed to do.

"This is where the magic happens," Queen adds, and spreads his arms dramatically.

Quentin squints. "You miss five years of television, the entire run of Chuck, Leverage and The Closer, and Cribs is what they catch you up on?"

"That show was on before I was marooned on Death Island," Queen says, his brow furrowing a little. Quentin marks that away – new weak points are always useful. "I presume you didn't drop by for a chat."

"You _presume_ correctly."

"Booty call?"

Quentin levels his frostiest glare and Queen just grins, all teeth. Quentin flips out the business card and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. It's been examined by forensics already.

"You came to show me a small piece of card stock," Queen says. "How…thoughtful."

Quentin rolls his eyes at the sarcasm, and flicks it at Queen, smooth and sharp. Card throwing is one of his secret skills; once upon a time he entertained the notion of becoming a magician before running into the problem of how to really become a _popular_ magician. Starling City came with its own built-in entertainment families, and woe betide any newbie who tried to break into the market. He'd debated putting an ad in the phonebook, but the kind of clientele that would attract wasn't who Quentin wanted paying him. Ever.

"Your business card," Quentin snaps. "Tell me what it was doing at my latest crime scene?"

"Uh," Queen says, "I got ten boxes of those bad boys last month -- only got two boxes left. It might even be odd if you came across a crime scene _without_ one?"

It's perfectly freaking plausible. Quentin swallows down all the things he wants to say ( _liar, liar, killer_ ) and taps the door frame awkwardly. "You better hope coincidence is the sole cause. Because if I find out you're lying--"

"What?" Queen smiles. "What you gonna do to me, huh?"

"Better not be anything you don't have due cause for," an amused voice floats in from behind Quentin.

He tries his best not to start guiltily. "Laurel," he manages. "It's nothing," he hurries to add, wondering if he can add Laurel to the escape he suddenly needs to make from this place. "Just following up on a lead. The department has a policy on loose ends."

"Hm," Laurel says, clearly not believing his bullshit. But that's only because Quentin raised her right, even if his parenting skills have nosedived somewhat sharply over the last few years. _And exponentially more so over the last few weeks._ "I was just coming by to get a few signatures on some purchase orders. Tommy wanted to drop them by," Laurel adds hurriedly, looking over at Queen, her eyes tracking his face way too closely for Quentin's comfort. He remembers the feel of Queen's fist plowing into him, and he wants that a million miles away from Laurel. _Now._ "But he's caught up at the bulk buy warehouse. I think he's haggling for cheap Sambuca."

"Sambuca's cheap enough already," Queen says, his attention fully on Laurel now that she's there.

"That's what I told him, but--" Laurel smiles, but it's not her warmest grin. It's tight - almost sad. Oliver Queen always makes her sad, and yet she won't stay away. Quentin curls up one of his hands into a fist in his jacket pocket and Queen side-eyes him, a small version of his smirk sliding onto the side of his face, like he knows what Quentin's doing. He certainly knows what that can lead to now. "He's trying to do his best for you, Oliver,” Laurel continues. “He's your best friend, and he wants to do you proud."

Oliver smiles. It's warm and full and for a moment Quentin can see the younger man that first crossed his path years ago. He swallows down a mouthful of bile, and focuses his assessing glare on the remains of the bruise on Oliver's cheekbone. _All that’s left of the mark of Quentin's fist._ It's nothing but a soft brush of yellowed skin, barely anything left, and Quentin wants to bring it back. He wants to repaint Queen's entire face with blood and bruises.

But Laurel is right there and she doesn't deserve to see that. She doesn't deserve to be anywhere near the vicinity of something as fucked up as that.

"Leave them here, I'll sign them and send them to the accountant," Queen says, the smile sliding away in favor of a brisk, professional nod. 

"Thanks," Laurel says. She edges a look at Quentin, speculatively. "Are you going to be long?"

"Another ten minutes," Quentin says. "It's just routine. I'm not arresting him today."

"Aw," Queen says. "I kinda like your handcuffs."

Laurel clucks in the back of her throat. "You _could_ stop winding dad up, Oliver. You might get arrested less often. And I know from experience those cuffs hurt.”

“From _experience_ ,” Queen repeats, his eyes lighting up. 

“He got a bit desperate when I wanted to go alone to a club,” Laurel says.

“I wasn’t _desperate_ ,” Quentin mutters, embarrassed. “I was being thorough.”

“Hm,” Laurel says, shaking her head. Then she smiles nostalgically. “I didn’t mind too much. More at the time. Less afterwards. That’s kind of the thing about pain. Sometimes you feel more alive when things hurt.”

“Way too philosophical for this time of the morning,” Queen drawls.

“It’s afternoon,” Laurel says, her body language lighting her up like a Christmas tree. She’s turned to Queen, and showing her palms; she’s vulnerable, and such an easy target for Queen, and Quentin’s stomach rumbles and it’s not hunger. It’s pure, unfiltered anger. “And time for me to go.” Laurel turns to Quentin and pats his shoulder lightly. "Meet me outside, we can go for lunch?"

Quentin swallows. The guilt's already clawing its way back in. The things he's done with Queen, _to_ Queen. The things he wants to do again. The way his brain is calculating how long he's got before Laurel would get annoyed waiting for him. He nods. "Sure."

Laurel hurries away, her high heels clacking on the metal walkways of the nightclub-in-progress. As soon as she's far enough away for their voices not to carry, Quentin moves.

"I told you to stay away from her," he hisses, his hand slamming down on Queen's desk.

Queen looks at Quentin's hand, contemplatively, but then looks up at Quentin again. "I'm staying away from her," he says. "It's getting her to stay away from me that's the real problem." He stares flatly at Quentin. "I'm bad news and she doesn't care about that." 

"Yeah," Quentin says. "You are bad news."

Queen tilts his head. "You never responded to my last text, Detective Lance."

Quentin takes a second, because he's not about to admit he still has the text. He should have deleted it, but _should have_ is a mythical beast in Quentin Lance's life now. He takes another second in order to make it more believable that he's trying to recall the text's contents and then he draws back. Looks stern. Suppresses the desire to slam Queen's face down into the thick metal desk between them. Maybe smash his face into it a few times. He wonders how Queen will look with a cracked cheekbone, and has to swallow down a surge of lust that takes like ash and blood in his throat.

"You could _never_ make me scream," Quentin says, meaning it as a cold putdown.

The instant he sees Queen's reaction, he knows it's a mistake.

He should have known better than to throw down any sort of gauntlet, but _should have_ is dead and gone, and Queen gets to his feet, his eyes locking with Quentin's. There's a cool challenge in his gaze. "So, this business card - which, by the way, anyone could replicate from any dime-a-dollar business card machine... Was that your best excuse to come and see me?"

Quentin's brow furrows as Queen moves over to one side, flicking on an old radio. Music floats out. Queen means to cover any sounds they’re about to be making, then. Well, if he’s looking for an argument Quentin’s not going to disappoint him now.

Even if it _is_ Dean Martin on the radio. "Excuse-- _excuse me,_ but contrary to popular belief as police we do our damn job and that means making sure every lead is properly closed off--"

"And it's proper protocol is it, for a cop with a known vendetta against a citizen to follow up on a lead with the one person in the world they'd be happy to sail up shit creek." Queen's gaze remains firm on his. Quentin pushes down the urge to step back, but it takes up too much of his concentration because when did Queen get so close?

He remembers one of his justifications for coming here -- _keep friends close, enemies closer; the more you see Queen, the more proof you may be able to find that he is the vigilante_ \-- moving so swiftly and quietly is yet another sign for his mental files. Or is it the uncontrollable thumping in his ears he hears every time that Queen is around that covers _up_ the sound of Queen's footsteps.

_Like the fella once said_ , Dean Martin croons in the background. _Ain't that a kick in the head?_

"I've always known I would need something big to bring you down," Quentin says, meaning more than that, meaning _definite incontrovertible proof,_ but when he hears his own voice, ringing in the small room, he can taste the innuendo that flares up. Even despite Quentin's good intentions behind the words.

Or maybe his bad intentions have gained control of his voice.

That certainly might explain why when Queen pushes forward, slamming Quentin into the filing cabinet behind him, that Quentin doesn't call out for help – his traitorous voice. At first he _doesn't,_ and then he _can't_ ; Queen's arm pushes full against Quentin's throat, choking him.

Quentin struggles automatically but Queen's prepared for his resistance, shoving with all his strength against Quentin's body. The metal handles of the cabinet dig painfully into Quentin's back. There'll be bruises. Deep ones, as Queen pushes again, rattling the cabinet. Even though he's trapped and slowly suffocating, Quentin grins down at Queen. There is no amusement in it – it’s all triumph. Queen might be the one shoving him, squeezing the air out of him, but Quentin isn't the one who’s lost his temper. Quentin's the winner in this one, even if he is the one unable to breathe right now.

"I should just keep pressing," Queen hisses. "God knows I've tried since my return, I have _tried_ to be fucking civil to you. But you're determined to keep pushing aren’t you?"

Quentin doesn't have enough air to speak. The world starts going hazy at the edges. Two seconds earlier he might have been able to fight back, but maybe it's too late, and maybe Queen _will_ kill him right here, but there's a certain amount of satisfaction with the idea. Quentin dead, but Laurel is just outside and she'll come in if Quentin takes too long. Queen won't be able to hide then; he’ll go to jail. Murdering a cop is a death sentence, a long, painful death sentence--

The vertigo is a cloud descending around Quentin, heavy and blinding and getting heavier as Queen chokes him, his arm inflexible and powerful as Dean Martin sings about his head spinning. It's not even a surprise when Queen uses his other hand to reach into Quentin's pants. It's just another level in their game now. Queen doesn't even try to use any finesse. This isn't about orgasm as art. This is orgasm as revenge – the natural extension of the dance of one-upmanship they're doing.

Just as the world's on the edge of disappearing, his climax smashes through Quentin like he's crashing through a wall and Queen drops him at the same time. Quentin sinks to his knees because he doesn't have the strength to stand. He hauls in oxygen, unable to meet Queen's eyes, and he can feel the floor sink when Queen moves around him.

Quentin doesn't want to look up while he's down, so he evens out his breathing, and climbs back to his feet, still feeling unsteady. Queen's not smirking anymore; his face is flint hard and he's absolutely silent.

"If you make one comment about you being the something big to bring _me_ down, I am pulling my gun on you, Queen I swear to God," Quentin hisses, and for a moment Queen's expression hiccups in amusement.

Then he swaps his sternness for a leer. "Maybe another time, Detective," he says. "Now can you get the fuck out of my office so I can get some work done?" Queen leans in, grins, and bares his teeth – looking feral. "Unless you'd like to stay and give me a crack at making you scream?"

"How about never," Quentin snaps, snatching up Queen's business card from where he threw it, and swooping out of the office.

_I couldn't feel any better or I'd be sick,_ Dean Martin adds from the radio.

"I guess you _did_ stop by for a booty call, detective," Queen catcalls as Quentin leaves.

He pretends not to hear it, pretends that his throat isn't scraped raw. He makes sure his neck is covered and reties his tie. He can almost feel his heart in his throat and every step has a drag to it. It's only Laurel's presence outside that stops him from turning back and knocking the shit out of Queen, not stopping until Queen's breath shallows and cracks.

#

Queen doesn't bother him for another week, and the bruises around Quentin's throat heal. Thankfully just in time -- the department's bowling match is Saturday, and no one looks inconspicuous wearing a turtle neck in a bowling alley. 

It's been a busy week. The vigilante has been on double time, and Queen's absence just makes the ongoing _what if, is he, they both turned up in the city at the same time, could it, am I right?, Queen's not that morally strong, Queen is that crazy_ thought train in his head run twice as fast. 

It's been a long day. A ridiculously long day. He’s the last one in the building except for the skeleton night staff, and he needs coffee just to make it home. It's definitely been _too_ long a day for Quentin to deal with this.

_This_ being Oliver Queen. In the police station. Leaning against the counter in the small department kitchen.

"I'm too tired to arrest you for breaking and entering," Quentin sighs.

"The cop at the desk let me in," Queen corrects him. "We were school drop-out buddies. _Can_ you arrest someone just for entering?"

"For you, I'd find a way." Quentin hovers on the threshold to the kitchen, trying not to eyeball the coffee too much. The bone deep weariness he's been feeling all day is already fading, his blood quickening at the idea of Queen's bones breaking under his knuckles, and this _isn't_ Quentin. This can’t be him. He doesn't break the law; he breaks people within the realms of the law. That's the only way the world makes any sense at all.

The world hasn't been making sense since Sarah. 

But Queen's not worth Quentin crashing and burning himself. He isn't. He has to get Queen out of there before he loses that too.

"Was there something specific you were after?" Quentin says. "Because I'm dead on my feet. Been chasing the vigilante up and down the Glades for the better part of the day. But I think you already know that."

Queen's jaw tenses, just a little – enough for most people to dismiss it as an inconsequential facial movement. But Oliver Queen is a book and Quentin's learning to read him page by page, while everyone else is distracted by the glossy cover.

"It must be frustrating," Queen says, finally straightening up from his casual slouch. His voice drops, into a tone which is tantalizingly reminiscent of the Hood's growl, and Quentin shivers at the sound. Queen's eyes are bright, and locked on him like he's some sort of prey. Quentin bristles and can't help but mentally run through the quickest ways to get at a gun. There’s the one in his belt. The one Mardison taped under the sink on a dare. The weapon locker downstairs. The one stashed in his desk.

"What?"

"To be so sure I'm the vigilante and not have any proof," Queen says, almost purring. He starts to move, circling the wooden island in the center of the kitchen, and Quentin automatically mirrors him, staying opposite him and surreptitiously noting all the potential weapons in the kitchen. _The drawer of knives. Appliances small enough to short out or throw._ The kitchen is probably the most lethal room in any building, and a police kitchen is no different, apart from the fact that some of the stains are probably lethal too. Most of Quentin's homicide scenes are kitchens. "It must kill you to be the only person who knows the truth, and not be able to do a thing about it."

Queen's fingertips dance for a moment over the counter-top. Quentin's ears are already ringing and his heart's pounding in the way it only does when he's on the hunt and nearing his prey. "So what's this?" Quentin asks. His voice is gruff and he's probably giving away too much with it. "A confession?"

Queen smiles, cat-like. He shrugs. He might trick everyone else, wearing clothes which hide his physique, but Quentin's not fooled. Queen's the exact same physical shape as the Hood. The coincidences pile up so much that it's painful how little proof there is. "It's what you think," Queen says. "I'm just saying it out loud. Imagining how you must be feeling, so convinced you're right." Queen stops, turns into the wooden kitchen island and leans over the counter, his eyes wide and unblinking. "So convinced I'm the Hood and close enough to grab, and yet so far away I might as well be on the moon."

Quentin halts too, and stares down at Queen for a long moment. Then Queen shrugs, straightens again, and resumes pacing. Quentin stays where he is. He's near the cutlery drawer now, and he's not going to play by Queen's rules. Quentin narrows his eyes and looks Queen up and down slowly, mentally picking the best places to stab. He doesn't know whether he wants Queen to die fast or die slow. Granted a police station isn’t the best place to murder someone, but the closets and counters are all wipe-down and bleach gets blood off white tiles quite easily.

"I know what you are, Queen," Quentin says, glaring coolly at Queen as he approaches him. Queen draws to a halt a pace away and folds his arms, ready to listen to whatever Quentin says. "No matter what proof anyone has. No matter if you're the Hood or just a rich asshole, I know what you are."

"Yeah?" Queen tilts his head. "And what's that?"

Quentin hisses it slow. "A killer."

Queen smiles and Quentin jumps back, missing Queen's fast swing at his face. Quentin pulls out his gun, but by the time his finger moves to the safety catch Queen's already taken it -- disassembling it and flinging the pieces to either side of the kitchen. 

"You already know I'm a killer," Queen says, leaning in closer, his head twisting to one side. A vein pulses in his neck. This close, it would be so easy for Quentin to break his spine. "I killed your daughter."

Quentin can't help the flinch this time. "And if I am right and you _are_ the vigilante, you've killed even more people than that."

"And yet you still keep letting me put my hands on your dick," Queen says, taking half a step, pushing up into Quentin's personal space. "I wonder what that says about you?"

Quentin hisses, deeply glad the building is mostly empty, and finally manages to swallow down his anger. He won't let Queen break him like this. He has control. Queen won't take that too like he's ritually taken everything else. "Whatever I am," Quentin says, breathing heavier than he's happy with, "it's _always_ going to be better than what you are."

"Yeah," Queen says, "I'm a lying bastard." Quentin frowns, and Queen leans in, a vicious smile curving onto his face. "I lied. I took Sarah's virginity the night before she died. I fucked her before she died, and I would have again, except she died before we could." Queen's eyes are cold; slightly manic. "I rocked her world--"

There may be some clause in the land of dignity which allows acceptable levels of violence to champion a daughter's honor, but Quentin's not even thinking of that when he smashes Queen in the side of his face with his fist. Queen reacts predictably and Quentin's fingers wrap around the nearest object - an errant frying pan which he slams into Queen's reaching hands like he's playing the weirdest game of tennis ever. 

"You're a fucking bastard," Quentin snarls. The words ring out like gunshots and Queen just smiles. His death wish is a low, tense hum in the space between them, and Quentin deeply wants to validate it. He wants it more than anything he's ever wanted that hasn't been _his family safe,_ and standing in front of him is one of the biggest reasons he can never have that ever again.

The space they’re in is narrow, and the fight seems to go at hyper-speed because of it. Both of them find their blows landing on inanimate objects as often as on each other. Queen braces himself with one hand on the island, one on the counter, ready to kick Quentin in the chest, but Quentin flicks the lever at the bottom of the kitchen island that keeps it anchored in place; he ducks and shoves at it, unbalancing Queen down onto the ground. Quentin launches himself forward, twisting Queen, slamming him down face first onto the stove. 

Queen struggles and Quentin's hand reaches automatically to turn one of the burners on, but that seems to trigger something inside of Queen and his fight turns desperate for a minute. Quentin finds the air flooding out from him as Queen throws him bodily onto the edge of the displaced kitchen island. Queen's face looks crazed, and Quentin rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding a sharp kick from him.

"You fight like the vigilante when you're pissed off," Quentin says. "Rage reveals the monster inside."

The barb makes Queen stumble for a moment, which is all Quentin needs to turn and haul the aging toaster full force at Queen's face -- so hard that the plug yanks out of the outlet with the thrust of it. Queen's head snaps backwards, and Quentin turns his next kick from the hips against him, tumbling them both to the tiles.

Winded, Quentin swaps technique for effort and blindly expends energy to keep Queen down on the tiles. All that does is make Queen struggle and moan in satisfaction when his hips move back and connect with Quentin's groin; where, as usual, his body betrays him completely. Queen laughs when he undulates his hips into Quentin's erection a second time.

"You're always so pleased to see me, Detective," Queen manages to get out. Quentin shoves at Queen's head, crunching Queen's ear into the tiles, and Queen just laughs again. "Mm, yeah, do me right here."

"Fuck you," Quentin says. "I fucking _will_ if you move again. Security’s due to make their rounds in the next twenty minutes, and I won’t be done with you by then." Quentin lowers his face, breathing it into Queen's ear so he can hear it like a shiver. "Your choice how this goes."

Queen freezes. 

"Not so cocky now, are you," Quentin croons. "Stay where you are. I'll say when you can move."

"Is it because you think I'm the vigilante," Queen says into the floor, his voice muffled. "Is that why you're turned on when we fight? Because you want to fuck the vigilante? Got a danger kink, do you?"

Quentin narrows his eyes even though Queen can't see him do it, and he puts both palms flat on the ground either side of Queen's back, starting to lever himself up. "I don't have to answer that."

"No," Queen says, and rotates so he's facing up at Quentin. The smirk is back in force. "No -- your body's already saying everything it needs to." Quentin's only a foot above him, and Queen's able to free a hand, stroking Quentin's erection through the cloth of his pants and dragging out an involuntary sharp exhale from him. "Now, I'm pretty sure me moving means you were gonna fuck me, right? I'm cool with doing it here on the floor. I mean... I'm pretty flexible." He leans up and bites Quentin on the jaw, in a quick, darting movement. "But I'm pretty sure I'd prefer you fucking me in a bed."

Quentin stares dully. There's a smear of blood on Queen's mouth. Whether it's from the fight or the bite, he doesn't know. His erection's thick and heavy in his pants, and he wants nothing more than to push down on Queen. Take him on the cold, greasy tiles. Freshen up the bruises and make some more. Fuck that goddamned smirk from Queen's face once and for all. 

Queen makes a speculative sound and levers up his hips, leaving Quentin under no illusion that whatever this thing is, it’s mutual. "Yeah," he says, noting Quentin's eye roving down the length of his body. "Kinda got a danger kink myself."

That shouldn't be as much of a turn-on as it is. Quentin swallows hard. “I noticed. You have a serious death wish. Neither of my daughters were virgins when you got your claws into them. Laurel I might have believed, but Sarah—" He laughs, shakes his head. "My youngest had a bigger death wish than you. As much as I want to believe she was perfect, and as much as I can re-paint my picture of her in my head to touch up the flaws, I know what she was. And I know you're just trying to push me now." Quentin swallows again, and pushes his mouth into a line. "You _want_ me to kill you."

"You have some interesting theories," Queen says, but he suddenly can't meet Quentin's eyes.

"Y'know something?” Quentin says, his convictions deepening. “I've always wanted to kill you. Never realized until now that I'd be doing you a favor. You _want _to die."__

__"No—" Queen starts, staring straight into Quentin's eyes, but the triumph rolls low in Quentin's body._ _

__Queen only lies when he's looking _directly_ into Quentin's eyes. _I'm not who you think I am.__ _

__"No," Quentin says, and he locks Queen in place, squeezing with all the strength he can spare. Their arousal meets, giving the whole moment a dizzy sheen, but this moment isn't about that. Well, not entirely. "No, this is it. This is exactly right. You're a coward. Of _course_ life is too damn hard for you. I'm not going to kill you, Oliver. That's what you _want_."_ _

__"So what _are_ you going to do?" Queen asks, sounding weirdly defeated for a moment._ _

__“Remind you of what it feels like to be alive, so when I do kill you, it'll be satisfying,” Quentin says, thickly. Queen stares at him blankly. Quentin shrugs. "I'm going home. When I get there, if you're in my bedroom, I'm taking you apart with my cock until you can do nothing but scream, or I'll take you apart with my fists until you can't scream any more. I'm not sure which. But if you can get into this station with all the paperwork I have on you, then you can get into my apartment. If you're not there, I expect you to stay gone and stay out of my life. You wanna play this game, you wanna play with this sort of fire, those are the rules."_ _

__Queen nods slowly. He stays on the floor as Quentin rises slowly and painfully and heads over to the door. Queen's eyes follow him as he goes._ _

__#_ _

__When Quentin arrives back at his apartment he automatically looks for signs of entry, and then methodically takes off his jacket and shoes. He heads to the bathroom, determinedly not looking at his closed bedroom door and ignoring the fact that he doesn’t know whether he wants Queen to be in there or not._ _

__He cleans up the bite on his jaw. Takes off his socks. Stares into the mirror at the bruises and blood on his face and cleans those up as best as he can. His hands are shaking as he works._ _

__By the times he’s finished, Quentin’s fairly well decided that he wants Queen to be in his bedroom. It’s a dark, evil thought. It’s the worst thought he’s had about anything for a long time, but the last five years have been nothing but pain, finding ways to dull the pain, and finding ways to avoid it and it’s like Laurel said about pain._ _

__That sometimes you feel more alive when things hurt than at any other time._ _

__Quentin’s been so sure that he died with Sarah five years ago, but he didn’t. Not really. He’s alive -- it just doesn’t feel like that. He’s been feeling too much since she died, or maybe he’s been feeling too little. Hating Queen focuses him, that’s all._ _

__Except maybe this hate is making him feel too much as well, because when he leaves him bathroom, he sees some unfamiliar clothing on one of his armchairs – a jacket, socks, the shirt Queen had been wearing. Quentin shivers, making the most of not having Queen there._ _

__Queen’s in his bedroom. _On his bed._ The one man he hates most in the world._ _

__The only man who’s made him feel a damn thing in the last five years._ _

__There’s too many things he wants to do all at once. It’s paralyzing and the Lances do not hold with fear, so Quentin finally inhales and heads into his bedroom._ _

__Queen’s not naked, despite the shirt – he’s wearing a loose green undershirt, and his boxer shorts are long enough to almost be modest, apart from the erection tenting the fabric. He’s barefoot and leaning back against Quentin’s headboard, knees bent and spread invitingly._ _

__“I didn’t think—” Quentin starts. “I—” His throat is dry, and there’s something about this that’s all wrong. It’s too intimate. It’s too _much_. Queen is on his sheets, hard. Maybe he pleasured himself a little to get into that state -- those too-rough fingers curling around his dick, dragging it into life._ _

__“Don’t overthink this,” Queen says. His expression is almost placid, but his gaze is locked fiercely on Quentin. “Come over here and fuck me.”_ _

__Quentin steps forward and his movements are almost involuntary at this point. He feels a little dizzy and separated from his body. Every other moment with Queen can be put down to pure physical arousal from the fighting, and it’s Quentin’s own dogged need to accelerate everything that’s even brought them to this point. It’s ridiculous. Quentin feels light-headed, and maybe he can use that._ _

__Maybe he can have this. And pretend it’s not him. It’s just someone who _looks_ like him._ _

__“I’m already open,” Queen says. “I fingered myself while I was waiting for you. You’re a very slow driver.”Quentin’s not motivated much to move, because some of his blood disappeared south at the idea of Queen touching himself while Quentin was still on his way, but the motivation floods back in when Queen smirks and says, “I wonder if you’re slow at everything.”_ _

__Quentin flings himself forward. It’s that damn smirk. It’s that fucking damn smirk. He hates it, he _hates_ it, he hates it, he’ll do anything to get rid of it, and that’s been the best damn discovery of these messed-up moments of theirs – the fact you can destroy that smirk with the aid of an ill-timed orgasm. He launches onto the bed, a hand clenching into the material of Queen’s t-shirt, and he reacts on instinct and kisses him._ _

__It’s not like kissing anyone else. Kissing Queen is just another extension of the battlefield. It’s another territory to conquer. Quentin is not soft or gentle or polite. He’s rough and imprecise and determined, and Queen makes this choked off sound as Quentin bites down, clamping his teeth around Queen’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood._ _

__“And you called me a vampire,” Queen mutters._ _

__“Shut _up,_ “ Quentin growls and kisses him again while Queen’s clever hands start to divest Quentin of his remaining clothing. Quentin lets him. Stays still. Let's Queen service _him._ It's only when Quentin's mostly naked, Queen's fingers drawing through his chest hair, nails skidding around the slight curve of Quentin's age-soft belly, that he intervenes. Reaches for Queen's boxers. Queen goes for his undershirt as he moves his intriguingly scarred legs gracefully in unison, undulating in order for his underwear to be removed. He's hard and leaking, the tip of his cock red and glistening in the low light of Quentin's bedroom. Finally Quentin reaches for Queen's undershirt._ _

__Queen pulls away a little. Quentin's surprise must show on his face, but Queen shakes his head, and then tugs up the shirt over his chest. For a moment, Quentin's distracted by the scars, and by the tattoo which lies high on Queen's chest, a tattoo which rings a mild bell in the back of his mind. It’s a warning bell, but Quentin's far too distracted to fully chase that thought._ _

__It's a thought for later. Much later. Right now, Queen is tugging the undershirt over his head, and doing something odd with it. He's—_ _

___This _thought completes in time. Queen's made himself a makeshift green hood. Queen looks at Quentin defiantly. Queen's tense and his breathing shallows as he stares at Quentin from beneath the green material.__ _ _

____Queen's made a hood. Made himself _into_ the Hood. For Quentin._ _ _ _

____"Go on," Queen says, his voice oddly taut. "Fuck me like I'm him. Fuck me like I'm the Hood guy."_ _ _ _

____Quentin's indecisive for a moment, but just that moment. His voice is thick as he says, "Turn over." Queen looks unsure, so Quentin holds still. He wants to reach out. Queen's body is covered with marks. Scars. Burns. _I was tortured,_ says the memory, and Quentin swallows, because he shouldn't want to scar the unmarked skin. He shouldn't want to make Queen's scars join together. He shouldn't want anything as much as he wants to get his dick inside Oliver Queen's ass._ _ _ _

____But he does. Nobody can help him now. He does._ _ _ _

____"If you were the Hood, I wouldn't want to see you," Quentin says, low and measured. If his breathing is ragged enough to be audible, Queen doesn't call him on it. "I wouldn't want you to feel anywhere near human. I'd want you to think you were an animal." The makeshift hood slips over Queen's eyes a little, painting his face in shadows. It's not bruises, but it's close enough. He can pretend. "You're an animal, Hood."_ _ _ _

____"Yes," Queen says, sliding his voice down into an unsure octave._ _ _ _

____"So get on your goddamned knees like the fucking whore you are, Hood," Quentin snarls. He's not quite sure where all of this has come from. Maybe from the pitch-boiling hollow that used to hold his heart. Or maybe it's from his gut, where he used to be able to draw truth and justice from, and now all he has is his brain to cling to; it's the only part of him that can repeat over and over what his job is _supposed_ to be._ _ _ _

____He's not on duty now, and the animal clawing inside of Quentin Lance can come out and play._ _ _ _

____And oh, it wants to play. Queen bows his head and slowly turns over, presenting his ass to Quentin, spreading his knees. He buries his head in his arms, and Quentin crawls forwards. He smoothes his hands over the burn low on Queen's back, and slaps at it a second later. Queen hisses in the back of his throat, and Quentin grabs for the nape of Queen's neck, yanking it up._ _ _ _

____"Keep your damn head up," Quentin hisses as he deftly rolls on a condom with his spare hand. It might have been a while, but he still has the knack. "If you want me to pretend I'm fucking the Hood, you've got to fucking pretend to _be_ him."_ _ _ _

____He's probably holding too tight, because Queen's gasping when he says, "Why are you so suddenly acting like I'm not him?"_ _ _ _

____"I didn't say that," Quentin says, pitching his voice low to Queen's ear. He throws his weight onto Queen, not holding back, and Queen grunts in a sound that might be pleasure or pain. Quentin's pretty sure he's never going to know the difference when it comes to Oliver Queen. "But if I were to give any particular reason—" He means to align himself against Queen. To tease him. But Queen's preparations have been thorough, and the tip of Quentin's dick slides right into him almost accidentally. Quentin can't help the shudder of sensation, at the puckering hole twitching around him interestedly, but he thinks he's okay – the small sound Queen lets out is nothing but surprised arousal. Quentin gathers himself together to say, "I would say it's because there's no chance you're a hero. You're a _monster_."_ _ _ _

____"And you're the one fucking the monster," Queen grits out. There may or may not be tears in his voice. Frustrated tears, perhaps. Queen's hips wriggle back, and his ass clenches hopefully around the tip of Quentin's dick, but Quentin locks his hips, refusing to give Queen what he wants._ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Quentin says, and he leans in, unable to resist biting Queen's jaw, the green material of the makeshift hood pushing into his nose and eyes until all Quentin can see is a mass of green and all he can smell is the feral hint of Queen, turned on and beneath him. He smells of fights and blood and desperation, and Quentin snarls into the side of Queen's jaw, open mouthed and heated, "I've never claimed not to be a monster too."_ _ _ _

____And he slams himself fully into Queen's ass. Sheathing himself in one brutal moment. Queen's open and ready, but not fully ready. It makes the intrusion uncomfortable, and Quentin forces himself forward regardless. Queen's a slut, no one's carrying any delusions in about that; Oliver Queen is no virgin. But maybe since the island no one has fucked his ridiculously defined ass like it obviously needs to be fucked; the noises Queen starts to make are indescribable. Quentin keeps him pinned, first with his weight and then with a heavy arm across his throat, choking him as he rides him, and Queen takes it, he fucking takes it, moving his ass greedily in the small amount of space Quentin allows him._ _ _ _

____The pressure between Quentin's legs quickens, tightens, and he can't keep strangling Queen; his hands move to Queen's hips and Quentin blindly fucks into him, starting to see stars behind his eyes. Beneath him Queen's grunting, his shoulders straining to keep his head up, so Quentin can see the material of the hood, so Quentin can keep up the charade of fucking his enemy. Queen moves a hand beneath his legs, and Quentin partially wants to stop him, to slap his hands away, to deny him the same pleasure Quentin's racing to, but the feeling buzzing through his spine is too good. _Too much._ He continues just to fuck into Queen, moving his hips in the same desperate motion, speeding up and slamming Queen into the headboard._ _ _ _

____The sound of flesh on flesh fills the air, and Queen's scent is thick in Quentin's nostrils. He's fucking Queen hard enough now that they’ll both be sore in the morning; both feeling this encounter for days. Quentin will be able to look at Queen and know _I was there_ and he's going to be feeling the same weird mixture of repulsion and pride for the rest of his life about this._ _ _ _

____Queen suddenly goes limp beneath Quentin, but Quentin doesn't stop fucking him. He couldn't if he were paid to. The whole universe has constricted down to their hips. To the way Quentin's buried balls-deep inside the worst person in his whole life. One of Quentin's hands detaches from Queen's hip to seek out the reason for Queen's loss of energy, and his fingers come back damp from their exploration._ _ _ _

____"Come already," Quentin hisses. Queen makes a noise which might be a sob. "That all you got?" He snaps his hips forward, brutally fast now. He can hear his heartbeat; it seems to have taken up residence in his throat. "It's gonna start to hurt now. Even an ass like yours, it's only really open to its best if you're relaxed or if you're turned on, and now you're neither. It won't be long 'til this burn is nothing but pain."  
Queen makes a choked off sound._ _ _ _

____"So we'll see whether I'm going to be nice this time or not," Quentin says. "Ask me to be nice."_ _ _ _

____Queen swallows. Quentin slows his pace. Painfully slow. Drags his dick out of that rapidly-addictive depth, and pushes it back in as slowly as he can bear. It's as he pulls it out again, dragging at Queen's inner walls, that Queen makes a noise of true pain. "Please be nice," Queen breathes. "Please. Please." Quentin pushes back in, just as slow. "Please, Detective. Please be nice."_ _ _ _

____Quentin smiles, cold and satisfied even though Queen can't see him, and picks up his pace. The makeshift hood bobs forwards with each thrust, connecting with the headboard, and Queen makes a choked-off sound of pleasure again. He's young. Quentin won't allow him the refractory time needed. He'll come before that. He slows down a little. "Did I say you could shut up, whore?"_ _ _ _

____Queen moans, low in his throat, and Quentin stills for a moment. "I'm sorry, Detective. Please. Please be nice."_ _ _ _

____Quentin stays still. His head and his dick are pounding, and Queen's scars are a road map to damnation. This is suddenly, simultaneously the most ridiculous and most mind-blowing encounter of Quentin's entire life. "What do you want me to do? Hmm? You're a shit. A murderer and a _killer_. I'm not going to get inside your head and figure out what you’re begging me for. Spell it out, killer. _What do you want?"__ _ _ _

____"Fuck me," Queen says, and then more desperately, "Detective, please. Fuck me. Fuck me, and come inside me. Please come inside me. Please. Fuck me. Fucking _own_ my ass. Please."_ _ _ _

____"Since you asked so nicely," Quentin manages, but it's about all he can handle – he's definitely reached his physical limits. Queen's still in his twenties and he's in amazing physical shape; all Quentin has on him is experience, and he’s frankly surprised it’s allowed him to last this long. He fucks into Queen in the most efficient way to get himself off, and when he does come it thunders out of him like an express train. And in the middle of the madness, Quentin slips and calls him _Oliver_. _ _ _ _

____It just happens; almost as surprising as the orgasm when it finally hits, because that's where the real attraction is._ _ _ _

____That he's fucking _Oliver Queen._ _ _ _ _

____Beneath him Queen makes an unidentifiable noise, and comes again, noisy and undignified. _Fucking refractory periods._ Queen _is_ in excellent shape. Something Quentin's already reluctantly thinking about when Queen pulls off the makeshift hood and discards it to one side, awkwardly turning over so he's not on his knees, is that he really should work out more to keep up with him._ _ _ _

_____Wait, to keep up with the Hood._ Not keep up with _Queen_. Orgasms aren't the best thing for Quentin's brain._ _ _ _

____He moves slowly to one side, his body already starting to ache. The room is cool and his over-heated skin is already reacting to it. There's still a fizzing energy between them though, and Quentin can't look away from Queen for a long moment._ _ _ _

____He's just figured out what to say next and it turns out he doesn't get to say anything._ _ _ _

____There's a noise._ _ _ _

____Queen turns to him and they look at each other silently, both worrying at the same time._ _ _ _

____"Stay here," Quentin says, trying not to sound too grateful for the interruption. "If it's an intruder, I'll signal. Get out the window if you have to, but unless I warn you, _stay here_."_ _ _ _

____Queen nods wordlessly. Quentin quietly slides out of bed and pulls on the nearest clothes, an old pair of sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt, because the last time he fought an intruder naked _he_ got arrested for public indecency because the fight spilled out onto the apartment landing and apparently his very religious, ultra conservative neighbors didn't appreciate the sight of his cock swinging as he knocked out two teen wannabe-burglars in front of their ten year old daughter. He grabs for the gun hidden in his closet and heads cautiously for his bedroom door. _ _ _ _

____He listens carefully, checks to see Queen's obeyed his instructions and is staying put, and then tries to forget how good Queen looks in his bed. There's blood staining the sheets, probably from their earlier fight in the kitchen, and bruises painting Queen's impressive torso, and the sight immediately makes his cock twitch interestedly again. Which is so not the reaction he's exactly happy with, considering someone's just broken into the apartment and is probably getting ready to gun them down._ _ _ _

____Well, Queen wasn’t wrong earlier. Quentin’s always had a little bit of a danger kink._ _ _ _

____He creeps out of his bedroom, closes the door, checks the bathroom, and then catches a glimpse of movement in the lounge. He quickens his pace._ _ _ _

____"You know," Quentin says, holding out the gun as he announces his presence, "if you're breaking and entering _my_ apartment, you have to have something seriously wrong with you."_ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Laurel says, looking at him wide-eyed from the center of the room. Quentin does a double-take, looks from her to his open apartment door, and frowns. "I'm related to you, aren't I?"_ _ _ _

____"What are you doing here?" Quentin asks, putting the safety on and sliding the gun carefully into his belt._ _ _ _

____Laurel lets go of the door and keeps her arms loose and ready. It's one of the self defense poses - she's ready for a fight if she needs to be. Quentin's abruptly, overwhelmingly proud of her - and just as suddenly ashamed of himself. What if she had come into the apartment, just a minute earlier? "Dad, seriously, what's going on? You wouldn't answer your phone. The department said the kitchen was a mess and that no one has seen you in hours. I was worried."_ _ _ _

____"You shouldn't be," Quentin says vaguely._ _ _ _

____"Kinda comes with the territory," Laurel says, and then to Quentin's horror, notices Queen's clothing sprawled across one of the armchairs. Her voice suddenly goes into a delighted shade of accusatory. " _Dad_. Right, right, I see why you weren't answering your phone."_ _ _ _

____"No," Quentin says. "I got in late. Was really tired. Just wanted to go to bed." _And fuck your ex-boyfriend,_ his traitorous brain sing-songs. He tells it to shut up. Queen's still _in_ his bed. He has to get Laurel out of here._ _ _ _

____"Right," Laurel says, and then looks closer at his face. "Did someone _bite_ you? It looks fresh—" She does move in closer, and Quentin steps back automatically, and even though running into his daughter has been an excellent cure for the blood-spike arousal Queen brings out in him, it's not a cure that's been given total time to work, and Laurel's face pinches when her gaze dips too low. " _Dad,_ " she says, half-admonishment, but half-almost-pleased. Then her expression goes more somber. "Is your new girlfriend violent? Is she hurting you?" Laurel's hand clenches into a fist, whether she notices it or not. "Is she still here?"_ _ _ _

____"What?" Quentin shakes his head. "No. _No._ And I'm really uncomfortable with this conversation." His head pounds slightly. "There's no one here but you and me."_ _ _ _

____"Right," Laurel says. "And the bruise on your face--"_ _ _ _

____Quentin flushes dully. He can't exactly say how he got it. Or the other bruises. "Was entirely consent-based," Quentin grinds out, looking away briefly, uncomfortable._ _ _ _

____"Well," Laurel says, "I. Uh. It's a whole new realm of TMI, but-- as long as you're okay, I can go home." Laurel, always a challenger to the Lance-family-physical-affection-anemia, pats his shoulder. Queen must have slammed that one into a closet back at the station or something, because it hurts._ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Quentin says, "It's been a long week. I was overtired. Won't happen again."_ _ _ _

____Then his bedroom door clicks, audibly._ _ _ _

____Quentin's stomach rolls uneasily, and he must look as guilty as he suddenly feels because Queen is out to wreck him, and now there's suddenly a hundred, thousand more possible ways._ _ _ _

____"You said you were alone," Laurel says, and it's an accusation. Her eyes flash, and she stares between Quentin and the corridor behind him that leads to his bedroom._ _ _ _

____"I," Quentin starts, but he can't think of a lie big enough, and it's suddenly too late._ _ _ _

____The door opens, and Queen, of course, steps out. There's a large book in his hands, like he's expecting to use it as a weapon, and he drops it on seeing Laurel. There's already a nasty blossoming bruise on Queen's cheek, and although he's found some of Quentin's pants to wear, there's a dubious stain on his green undershirt, and it doesn't take Laurel long to fit all the pieces together. She looks from Queen to the bite mark on Quentin's jaw, to the clothes on the armchair, and she pales. Her hands shake a little, but she tilts her chin arrogantly in a way that she's inherited cleanly from her mom, and looks at Quentin with such a betrayed expression that his bones resonate with it._ _ _ _

____"That Queen boy," Laurel says, throwing Quentin's words from weeks before back at him. "He's been winding you up." Her face is cold, dispassionate as she looks between both of them. "I guess I see now the kind of winding up you meant." Her voice is as cold as her expression, and she sweeps from the apartment before Quentin can even find his voice._ _ _ _

____A long moment passes. It might be a minute. It might be an hour. The darkness of the room creeps in at Quentin's feet, and he can feel a chill. The thrill of fighting with Queen and the rush of fear-induced adrenaline from hearing the door click, it's all gone, and Quentin's left hollow. Still. Hating himself. Knowing this was Queen's endgame and hating beyond everything that he was dumb enough to fall for it._ _ _ _

____"You little shit," Quentin says. His voice sounds thin and reedy to his ears. Queen stays still, rocking on his feet slightly, not running away. Staying to listen to what Quentin has to say. "You're a selfish, unthinking bastard. And I should have seen this coming." He glares at Queen, but he's not as angry as he thinks he should be._ _ _ _

____Self loathing always takes the edge off._ _ _ _

____"I had to," Queen says, in a muffled voice. He shuffles again. "I had to. Ever since I came back-- Hell, even before I came back." His voice strengthens and he looks at Quentin, his shoulders tense. "She wasn't moving on. I owe Laurel so much, and I can give her very little, but this is something I can do. I had to find some way. Some _thing_. Something big and bad enough that she couldn't forgive me for. I already killed her sister. She already forgave you once for something worse than this. You nearly got her killed and she still forgave you. She'll forgive you anything. But me, no. And what could be worse than me using you?"_ _ _ _

_____Using_ him. Yeah. As if Quentin's self-loathing couldn't get any worse. "Right," Quentin says, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Oliver Queen. Always with the explanation that paints him as the hero." He steps forwards, weary and angry but mostly just tired. He doesn't want to kill Queen as badly now. He wants to chase after his daughter - put things right. "You're not a hero, Queen. You're the furthest thing away from a hero that can exist."_ _ _ _

____"I know," Queen says, his voice tight and sad. "But she'll forgive you. She'll never forgive me. And that's the best thing for her. You know I'm not a hero, but she doesn't. And I needed a permanent way for her to realize that."_ _ _ _

____"I'll give you a point for your intentions," Quentin says. "But not for the execution." He falters a little when he tries, "You could have told me."_ _ _ _

____"You wouldn't have listened," Queen says, shaking his head. "Besides... My way wasn't _all_ bad?"_ _ _ _

____Quentin looks at Queen. They're both standing in near darkness now, and Quentin doesn't feel angry. If he feels anything at all it’s a deep, impossible sadness. "We'll see," he says._ _ _ _

____Queen nods heavily and picks up his pile of clothes. "I'll make sure you get your clothes back," he says._ _ _ _

____"Burn them," Quentin says, turning around. He doesn't move until Queen is gone._ _ _ _

____#_ _ _ _

____The thing is, Queen's right. About all of it._ _ _ _

____Laurel does forgive him._ _ _ _

____Okay, so it takes her about three months, a few of the storming silences that the Lance family excels at, and a few more sessions of shouting at each other about legal issues that are really them shouting about the Oliver Queen issue, but Laurel forgives him._ _ _ _

____And that's where the problem ultimately lies – Laurel will forgive anyone anything._ _ _ _

____When Quentin sees his daughter reject Tommy Merlyn's next big attempt to acquire a drawer at her place, he knows what he has to do._ _ _ _

____He waits for about two hours in Oliver Queen's nightclub office before Queen comes in._ _ _ _

____The stationery is still wrapped up in plastic. Queen needs to work harder on pretending he's a properly functioning member of society. Queen freezes at the door when he sees Quentin perched on the end of his desk, and he swallows before coming into the office and pushing the door shut._ _ _ _

____"So," Queen says. "Decided to come and kill me after all?"_ _ _ _

____Quentin looks at him, long and slow, and then he shrugs. "You were nearly right," Quentin says. "Laurel has forgiven me."_ _ _ _

____Queen looks like he's struggling for a reply, and then he manages, "Good." He walks into the office, and over towards his chair, but he doesn't sit down. He stands behind it, both of his hands gripping the back._ _ _ _

____"And that's a problem," Quentin says._ _ _ _

____Queen frowns. "What, you want Laurel to hate you?" He shakes his head. "It's not fun. Believe me. I'm putting it up there in the top five with being tortured and being set on fire. Which, to be fair, was kind of being tortured in a new and exciting non-knife way."_ _ _ _

____Quentin's hands flex at the blase way Queen's describing his torture. If Queen thinks he's over it, he's got another think coming. "No. I just don't want her to fall back in love with you. That... thing... we had. It made her fall out of love with you. Finally. But you have history -- too much history."_ _ _ _

____Queen shakes his head a little. "What are you saying?" He sounds tired, and Quentin really looks at him -- the bags under his eyes, the strain on his face. Queen hasn’t been having a good few months._ _ _ _

____"I'm saying," Quentin begins, then he takes a deep breath and steps forward. His blood is already pounding and he feels like an idiot, but his last three months have been quiet and dull. Without Queen to fight with, Quentin's life is dull and grey; anger's just as consuming as love ever was. He looks Queen straight in the eyes. "I'm saying you promised to find a permanent way to keep my daughter disinterested in you. To help her move on." He steps around the desk, and frowns. "I'm saying we probably should keep kicking the shit out of each other and appalling her some more. You know. Seeing as you have a danger kink too."_ _ _ _

____Queen frowns. "How long have you been preparing that eloquent little speech?"_ _ _ _

____Quentin shrugs at the sarcasm. "A while."_ _ _ _

____"And the file in your jacket making it bulge out oddly," Queen says, narrowing his eyes, "that's not, say, a piece of information that'll work as a bribe to make me forget this conversation ever existed in case I said no?"_ _ _ _

____"Uh," Quentin says, and scratches the back of his neck. "Maybe?"_ _ _ _

____Queen smiles, just for a moment, and then he nods -- mulling it over._ _ _ _

____"Don't get me wrong," Quentin says. "I hate you. This is just convenient. It keeps my daughter safe--"_ _ _ _

____"--and you get orgasms and pretty bruises?" Queen finishes, quirking his head to one side._ _ _ _

____"I wasn't going to put it like that," Quentin says._ _ _ _

____"Okay," Queen says._ _ _ _

____"I wasn't," Quentin protests._ _ _ _

____"No. I mean I know. I mean--" Queen shakes his head. "I mean _okay_. Sure. Fighting. Orgasms. Keeping Laurel safe. It sounds _terrible_."_ _ _ _

____Quentin narrows his eyes. "I hate you."_ _ _ _

____"I know," Queen says, but he hums happily, and he's smirking again._ _ _ _

____Quentin's stomach boils a little. He's sort of pleased the irritating sensation is back -- and that just makes him crosser. "You're a little shit."_ _ _ _

____"Yes, I am." Queen pulls in closer, aligns their hips, and the smirk widens._ _ _ _

____"I'm going to punch that smirk permanently from your face," Quentin tells him._ _ _ _

____"I'm counting on it," Queen says._ _ _ _

____"Maybe we should get out of here,” Quentin says, somewhat appalled at himself for stooping that low._ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Queen says. "But no one's around if you want to smash up my office?" He tips the chair back over invitingly, and frowns at it slowly falls on the carpet. "Yeah, that's not really working, is it?"_ _ _ _

____Quentin shakes his head, but he moves in. His mouth is dry and his hands are trembling, but he's never more alive than when he's hating Oliver Queen. Maybe that's sort of fucked up, but Laurel’s always telling him he needs to feel more._ _ _ _

____She probably means positive emotions. Oh, well. He's never been good at doing what he's told to do._ _ _ _

____He wraps a hand around Oliver's waist, pulling him in, and he shoves one hand inelegantly inside Oliver's pants, and Oliver's already interestingly and pleasingly half-hard. "Maybe if you're really good we can skip some of the violence," Quentin suggests, leaning in and biting at Oliver's neck._ _ _ _

____Oliver's head lolls back, allowing him better access. "Hm," Oliver says. "Even though I could still be the vigilante?"_ _ _ _

____"You're messing with my mood already," Quentin tells him, and gasps when Oliver manages to undo his pants and starts to work on his cock in turn. "I really fucking hate you."_ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Oliver says, negotiating their erections together, backing up against the nearest wall. Quentin thinks of a hundred possibilities, all of them terrible, and as such, terribly inviting. "I fucking hate you too.”_ _ _ _

____Quentin backhands him, and Oliver actually _headbutts_ him, and they both stagger to the floor, and Oliver ruts up against him, slow and long, until they’re both coming to pieces on the concrete, and Oliver collapses against him a little. He’s breathing hard and he’s a steady weight against Quentin’s shoulder. It’s not conventional and it’s not sane and Quentin doesn’t know whether to hold onto him or strangle him. Still... _ _ _ _

____It might work._ _ _ _

____It really might._ _ _ _

____Ain’t _that_ a kick in the head._ _ _ _


End file.
